


I'll Be The Compass That Point You To North

by Penknife



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: Backstory, Jedha, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22559638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penknife/pseuds/Penknife
Summary: They've been helping each other find their way.
Relationships: Chirrut Îmwe/Baze Malbus
Comments: 10
Kudos: 30
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	I'll Be The Compass That Point You To North

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rivulet027](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rivulet027/gifts).



As an apprentice Guardian, Chirrut can't help feeling that if his destiny is being controlled by the Force, he's not sure it's making good choices. It isn't his blindness that he resents. That puts obstacles in his way, but most of those obstacles consist of other people doubting that he can do well. He knows he can do well, and he's learned to be patient in proving it. 

He is already near the end of his apprenticeship and almost ready to take up his life’s work. He knows better than to wish for things to be different from the way they are. But all the same, he has never quite stopped wishing that he could have been a Jedi Knight. 

He understood from the time that he was old enough to understand anything about the Jedi that he wouldn't be chosen. The Jedi visit Jedha often enough to find every child who is suitable for the training in infancy, and it is a great honor for their families, a cause for prayer and celebration. 

He isn't suitable. He can sense the Force just enough to be certain it exists, ringing through the kyber crystal and shading the people around him in white and black and gray. He's learned to draw closer to it through long training, to quiet his mind and listen with his mind as well as with his ears. But it still won't bend to his will or come when he calls. He can't peer into others' minds or heal the sick with a touch or bring his staff winging to his hand if he carelessly lets it fall. 

"So don't be careless," Baze says, and kicks the staff off the ground toward him. Chirrut catches it in the air in exasperation. Baze is generally satisfied with simple questions and simple answers. He knows what he's for, and he's proud to do it. It's harder for him to control his temper, but easier for him to be content in the present moment, without ambition or regret. 

"I accept that being a Jedi was never my path," Chirrut says. "I just can't help wondering why." 

"Maybe you wouldn't be a very good Jedi," Baze says. 

"Thank you for that humbling answer." 

He can tell Baze is rolling his eyes from his huff of frustrated breath. "Would you really want to be? We'd have to have left our families. We'd have to have left Jedha." 

There's a "we" in this hypothetical life now that wasn't there before. "We would never have known what we were missing." 

"You would have wondered, because you're wondering now." 

He has to grant that point. "I wouldn't have missed much, if I still had you." 

There's another frustrated huff. "They would have separated us," Baze says, no humor in his voice now. 

"You're my friend," Chirrut says, every part of his being protesting strongly enough at the idea of putting aside that attachment that he knows that Baze has won the argument; he wouldn't have made a good Jedi. 

"If that's what you want," Baze says, and now he's standing closer than he usually does; Chirrut can feel the heat of his body inches away. It occurs to him that there are other ways that he would have made a bad Jedi, too. He's never been entirely contented with celibacy, or felt himself likely to be able to share his bed without losing his heart in the process. When he steps in and kisses Baze, their mouths hungry on each other, it feels perfectly natural, like that's what he's always been meant to be doing right now. 

"Don't tell me you've been shy," he says when they break apart, because it's easier to tease than find softer words, and probably more appreciated. 

Baze shakes his head. "But you always want to be so perfect.” This isn't forbidden, but there are those who would call it an imperfection, a distraction from dedication to the Force. But the Force is everywhere; the force is in every line of Baze's body, singing through the places where they touched. And the Force doesn't require perfection. Other people have required it, sometimes, for Chirrut to prove himself, and at times he's demanded it of himself, but the Force accepts imperfection. 

"So, do you intend to instruct me?" There's a momentary pause, in which Baze doesn't say _I was waiting for you,_ but in which Chirrut decides that it's true. "Or are we equally in the dark?" 

"Not for long," Baze says, and kisses him again on the street for the entertainment of anyone passing by. 

When they are finally in bed, Chirrut explores Baze's body with his hands, learning him the way he's memorized ancient books he can't read. Baze isn't gentle, wrestling with him in the sheets, biting his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark that he’ll prize until it fades. 

Neither of them wants to stop once they’ve started, determined to do everything and prove in every possible way they fit together. By morning, they’re both tired and sweaty and sore, and Baze falls asleep around the time the sky is lightening and they should both get up to face the day. If they appear late together having clearly been in be together all night, they’ll be unmercifully teased for it. 

Chirrut lets Baze sleep anyway, just for a little while, because it feels like this is exactly where they are both supposed to be. 

***** 

Chirrut finally understands what the Force intended after the Jedi are hunted down and killed and the Temple guardians scattered. If he were a Jedi, he would be dead, too, not left here to help his people. They are both still here to help and to preserve the teachings of the Force because they were beneath the notice of the Empire. He’s grateful that’s what they were chosen to be. 

“There is no Force,” Baze says. “There never was. That was all lies.” 

They’re sleeping on the roof of a market building, in the shadow of a cistern that provides shelter from the wind and provides them with water if they climb up to break the ice and dip water from the open cistern mouth. It won’t be warm enough if the weather turns really bad, but that’s not a problem they have to solve right now. 

Baze has his back against the cistern and his weapon across his knees. The blackness of Baze’s despair roils around it like the taste of smoke. Chirrut isn’t afraid. He’s sorry for what they’ve lost, but he isn’t afraid, and he isn’t ashamed. He understands that he’ll have to lead Baze, now, for a while. 

“Never mind the Force, then,” he says. “We can help take care of people here. That’s worth doing.” 

“Take care of them,” Baze says, with an angry huff of breath. “We can’t even take care of ourselves.” Neither of them will steal, so they’ve been reduced to begging, some days, and to scavenging for whatever they can find of any value in the refuse on others. 

“Is that required?” There are things Chirrut can’t do for himself. He knows the Force doesn’t require anyone to be perfectly self-sufficient. There’s no such thing. People depend on people. He knows Baze knows that, because Baze used to remind him of it back when he needed reminding. 

“No,” Baze says, but his voice is muffled. He’s bent over with his forehead on his knees, his shoulders hunched against the chilly wind. There’s still bitter anger written in the shape of his body where they touch. 

“Put the rifle down and come here,” Chirrut says. For a moment, he thinks Baze won’t let go of the weapon, thinks he might stand up instead and walk away and not come back this time. chirrut has faith those things won’t happen, but faith only goes so far. 

Then he hears the gun scraping the rooftop. Baze puts his arms around Chirrut, holding him so hard it hurts. It’s a good pain, proof that they’re both still here. They rub against each other as if only craving warmth until it finally wakes real desire, and Chirrut pins Baze under him, thrusting against him through their clothes. 

“I can’t keep watch when I can’t see,” Baze says. 

“So don’t,” Chirrut says. He’d hear any footstep on the roof. He trusts the benevolence of the shadows wrapped around them. 

“Reckless,” Baze says, but he doesn’t stop Chirrut from proving that they still have this, beyond grief for the past or worry about the future: the heat of their bodies, heavy breathing and straining muscles, the urgency that gathers to a desperate peak and then breaks. Chirrut keeps his arms around Baze when they’re done, steadying, solid. 

“Trust that this is where we’re supposed to be,” he says. 

Baze shakes his head, but he doesn’t have to have faith right now. They’re still on their way to where they need to go.


End file.
